


Look Up to the Skies

by Visinata



Series: Alternate Endings (Wayward Son) [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Beach Scene, Alternate Ending, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Big Emotions, Book 2: Wayward Son, Boys Talking, Fix-It, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, just talk to each other for Crowley's sake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata/pseuds/Visinata
Summary: Some of the things I wish Simon and Baz had been able to talk about on the beach before heading back to England.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow
Series: Alternate Endings (Wayward Son) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608430
Comments: 22
Kudos: 68





	Look Up to the Skies

**Author's Note:**

> The words in italics at the beginning are a direct quotation from Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell.
> 
> Huge thanks to [tbazzsnow (artescapri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/profile)  
> and [cynosure_phrases](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/profile)  
> for their beta help!

_You don’t have to leave with us, you know.”_

_“What?”_

_He turns back to the sea. “I saw you … with Lamb. I heard you.”_

_“Snow…”_

_“He’d let you stay there.”_

_“In a glam-rock hotel in Las Vegas? No, thank you.” It’s the wrong thing to say. But everything Simon’s saying is already the wrong thing. This is a wrong conversation._

_He raises his hands, frustrated. “Baz, I was there! You—you fit in.”_

_“I was trying to fit in.”_

_“You’re like them! And he could show you how to be more like them; you wouldn’t have to go looking for answers in books. Baz, we’ve read all the books. All mages know about vampires is how to kill them!”_

_“Knowledge I have very recently put into service.”_

_Simon growls and turns towards me, one leg dropping into the sand. “Baz, you wouldn’t have to hide anymore!”_

SIMON

Before Baz can reply, there’s a commotion from behind us. Sand and pebbles cascading down the wooden steps that lead to the beach. It’s Penelope, and she looks like she has a bee in her bonnet over something. It must be close to time to leave for our flight. 

“For the love of Magick,” she says, as soon as she’s within earshot. “I’ve never met a pair of worse communicators.” She stomps out in front of us and stops, hands on hips, blocking the view and soaking her shoes. “I thought you’d come here to sort yourselves out so the flight home isn’t absolutely painful for all of us, but here you are bickering about vampires! Why is it that neither of you will simply say what you’re thinking? How hard can it be?”

“Leave it, Penny,” I say. “You’ll be fine on the flight home. You don’t have to deal with me. Or Baz. We can take care of ourselves.”

Baz huffs. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Penelope’s shaking her head and getting an ominous glint in her eye. “You’re not leaving me sat in between the two of you like one of those concrete motorway barriers while you mope.” She looks at me. “And you glower.” She turns to Baz.

She pauses for a moment, considering. Then she lifts her her ring hand and points it at the both of us as she starts speaking with magic: “ **The truth, the whole truth and noth—”**

Before I’ve fully registered what’s happening, Baz erupts from beside me, striding forward and whipping his wand out of his left sleeve with his right hand. The way he’s brandishing it across his body he looks like Laurence Olivier or Carey Elwes. 

“ **Cat got your tongue!** ” His voice is ringing with magic. Penelope’s mouth keeps moving but nothing’s coming out. Her truth spell never gets a chance to land.

Then in a sequence of events so rapid I’m not sure Baz isn’t using his vampire speed, he casts “ **Stand your ground** ” so she’s stuck guppy-mouthed in the sand, shakes his head, swears, aims his wand at her again, casts “ **undo** ” followed by “ **back off,** ” then yells, “Keep your sodding magic to yourself, Bunce! Don’t you _dare_ cast anything on Snow unless he asks you to!” 

Then he takes a menacing step towards her as she stumbles backwards across the beach. Finally, he sinks back down to the ground next to me. 

I’m not sure what just happened. I should probably be concerned about the indiscretion of Baz practically starting a magickal duel right here on the beach, but I’m mostly just impressed. There’s something about watching him lose his cool like that that reminds me just how stunningly powerful he is. Him and Penelope both.

And that, of course, reminds me of how much I’m _not_ that anymore. And how, once this is all over and we’re safely back in London, I won’t be around to see Baz use his magic like that, or Penelope use hers. Because I’ll be on my own. In my own flat. That I’ll be paying for with my own money, earned by being a mundane, hardworking, Normal. The way I was always meant to be. All the good feeling sinks away with the weight of those thoughts. How can something feel so heavy and so light at the same time?

Baz is still sitting in the sand, eyes half lidded, staring after Penelope.

“Thanks,” I force out, gruffly.

He’s silent for a moment. I peek at him from the corner of my eyes. He’s watching me, but when he sees me looking at him he turns away. 

“Don’t thank me,” he says finally. 

I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off. “Seriously, Snow. Don’t.” He looks down and away. “I’ve actually considered using that same spell on you myself.”

That surprises me, to be honest, and I don’t know what to say. Baz doesn’t cast things on me without asking. Not these days. Not now that he’s trying to save me instead of kill me. I don’t believe he _would_ really cast an illegal truth spell on me, though I’m not all that surprised Penny tried it. She means well. 

I wait to see if Baz will say something else. If he’ll look at me again. After a minute he does. Speak, that is.

“I’d never have done it, but seeing Bunce almost do it to you… it makes me realize how shit it was of me to even consider it. I’m sorry.”

BAZ

Simon gives a short, mirthless laugh. “Don’t be. Believe it or not, I’ve actually wished you’d cast it on me. More than once. I— I have things…” His voice trails off. “Things I want to say to you that I haven’t been strong enough to say on my own.” 

“I’m not casting a truth spell on you. It would be immoral.” I can’t help throwing another glare after Penelope’s retreating form. That girl would do absolutely anything to help her friends. I’m torn between scorn for her methods and respect for her determination.

Simon plows on, “Don’t you think it could be helpful though?” _Does this beautiful menace actually_ want _me to cast illegal magic on him? After months of refusing a simple wing concealment spell?_

I shake my head and I’m not sure if I’m saying no or trying to clear it of this terrible idea.

“What if, Baz— what if we pretend like we’re under the spell, yeah?”

“Explain.”

“I tell you everything, and not because I want to… but, like, because I have to.”

“You’re making it sound as though you have some big horrifying truth to tell me.”

He shifts uncomfortably in the sand. My heart shrinks in my chest.

“It’s okay if _you_ don’t want to tell me everything _you’re_ thinking though, Baz. You don’t have to do it with me. You just have to listen, okay?”

_I wouldn’t mind telling him everything I’m thinking, if I thought he_ would _listen. But I’m terrified of baring my soul (whatever’s left of it) just so he can reject it._

I don’t say any of that. Instead I murmur, “I don’t know if I _want_ to hear everything you have to say to me.”

Snow flinches. 

“I didn’t mean— ” 

“Leave it, Baz.” His eyebrows are drawn and his lips pressed firmly together. His tongue pokes through, wetting first the top one, then the bottom— it’s a whole show—before he continues. 

“Can we?”

“Can we what? Have the world’s most painfully honest conversation?”

“No, it doesn’t have to be a conversation.”

“But you just said you wanted to talk with me—” Snow doesn’t let me finish. 

“I mean… there’s nothing really to talk about though. Just, I have something I need to tell you, and then… then we can be done.”

“Done with what? The conversation?”

He shrugs again and a ball of cold fire sinks to the pit of my stomach. Then he pulls his knees into his chest and hugs his arms around them, tipping his head and fixing me with his clear blue gaze.

“Baz,” he begins, “when someone shows you who they are, you should believe them.”

He pauses, as though I’m supposed to know what he means and have a reply at the tip of my tongue. I don’t. I’ve never felt less prepared for a verbal sparring match in my life. 

“I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” I say slowly.

He takes a deep breath and huffs it out through his nose, like he’s already fed up with me. Like he’s _been_ fed up with me. 

“I thought this trip would be different, Baz. I thought— I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d learn something about myself, but all I learned is that I’m a fuckup no matter what continent I’m on.”

I snort. I hate myself for it.

“Don’t laugh Baz.”

“I’m not—” 

He interrupts. “I realize you already knew that.”

_I don’t like the direction this conversation is going. I need to stop it veering so far that I’m lost._

“Weren’t there any good parts of this trip for you?” I ask. “There were times I saw you looking happy. Were you?”

He thinks again. “Yeah, I guess so. A few times.”

“What was it that made you happy?”

A smile creeps onto his face while he speaks. It’s small and wistful and it hurts that it has nothing to do with me.

“The sky. It’s so blue and so big here. Being able to fly without worrying I’d be spotted, being at the Renaissance faire before all hell broke loose and I could just be me, with my wings, and people liked it. Being there _after_ all hell broke loose—even though the swords were crap—and I could _still_ be me and people liked that too.”

“It’s true,” I say, reaching my hand out and setting it tentatively on his arm. “Some of us fucking loved it.”

He flinches. Looks down at my hand on his arm then jiggles his arm out from underneath. My hand falls into the sand with a dull thud. When he looks up at me through his eyelashes, they’re glinting yellow-blond in the California sun, and guilt and shame are written across his face. “Can I still be painfully honest?”

I nod. I can’t even begin to find my words through the terror licking up my chest. I realize I’ve balled my rejected hand into a fist.

He looks out towards the ocean before he begins speaking. “When you come at me to touch me or kiss me… or whatever. It feels bad.”

I swallow and keep my eyes on him. If this is the last glimpse I’m going to get of him, I’ll be drawn and quartered if I look away. 

“I don’t know why,” he says, his eyes still out to sea. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what to say. I can’t say it’s okay. It’s not okay. 

He goes on. “It’s like the opposite of the way I feel when I look at the sky here. It’s like the opposite of freedom.”

I tip my head up, even though it means facing directly into the sun. It’s the only way to stop the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes from streaming down my face. 

“And I know this is unfair.” 

Crowley, he’s still going. He is finally going to kill me. I will burn to a crisp here in the sun on a California beach while my boyfriend tells me he hates it when I touch him, then breaks up with me.

There’s a pause. And in the silence of the waves lapping and the gulls calling, I feel his hand land on mine. Warm and solid. And surprisingly sure. 

“But it doesn’t feel like that when I touch you.” I tip my head down fast, to look at him, and the tears fall. 

“When I touch you, I still feel like I’m me. Like I’m in control. I’m sorry,” he says again. “I know it’s not fair.” 

I feel his hand start to pull away and I panic, opening my fingers and grabbing his between my knuckles, my hand still palm down in the sand. 

“Please,” I whisper. I’m not sure what I’m asking for. For him to please keep holding my hand, to please just kill me now, to please be careful with my heart.

“What?” Simon asks. “Please what?”

“Please… any time you want to touch me. In any way. Please do. I always want to hold your hand. I always want to kiss you.”

“It doesn’t feel right though. I mean, how can I be allowed to hold onto you if I don’t want you to do the same to me.”

“You’re allowed, Simon. You’re always allowed.”

He slides his fingers around the sides of my hand and gives it a squeeze. 

I squeeze back, very gently, and ask, “Is this okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s okay.” 

I flip my hand over so we’re holding hands properly now, palm to palm. “Is this?”

He nods. 

“So no touching, unless you touch me first?” 

“Yeah, no. If… if that’s okay.” 

It’s not what I want, but I can live with it. For as long as he’ll give it to me. 

I’d like to leave it here. We’re holding hands, and this talk has already been painful enough. But I can’t let myself risk the progress we’ve just made because yet again I’ve failed to understand what Simon wants from me. 

“And if you touch me first, is it really okay for me to go ahead and touch you?” I run my thumb over the top of his hand by way of illustration.

“Yeah. That’s okay. That’s good.” He takes a deep breath. “As long as you stop when I want you to.”

“Of course. But you have to tell me when you want me to back off. It’s confusing for me when you pull away and I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong Baz. It’s me. I’m the wrong one. Are you… are you really sure you want to do this? Try staying with me? Even like this?”

_Try staying with me._ I knew it. He _was_ planning to break up with me. Everything about this feels extremely precarious, but having it out in the open actually makes me feel better. Knowing that he doesn’t understand it either -- maybe that means it’s something we can work on together. 

I smile at him and hold his hand like it’s made of spun glass. “I am.”

I’m anticipating Simon squeezing my hand back. Maybe something more. I am completely unprepared when he snatches his hand away and presses his palms into his eyes, suddenly blurting, “I can’t do this, Baz. I’m sorry.”

_What?_ I think. _Can’t do what, Simon?_ But I can’t force any sound out past the lump in my throat.

As if he’s heard my thoughts, Simon keeps going. “This isn’t fair to you. None of it is. I’m not being fair—I can’t let you put all this effort into something that’s doomed.” He lowers his hands from his eyes, wipes them on the edge of his t-shirt, already damp from the salt spray. Then he barks out a harsh laugh. “I should have listened to you back at the beginning when you thought we would go down in flames, Romeo and Juliet style.” 

Then he straightens his back and juts his jaw forward. Fighting stance. I inadvertently move for my wand where it’s hidden in my sleeve and then feel incredibly stupid when I realize what I’m doing. This isn’t a fight. And no matter how much I wish there was a spell that could fix everything I know it’s not something we can magick ourselves out of. Besides, if there was, I’m certain Bunce would have cast it by now. 

“Baz,” He’s looking directly at me, my whole universe sparkling in the sun-kissed freckles on his face. He takes a gigantic breath in and lets it out in a shudder. “I’m trying to break up with you.” His voice is too loud. “I’ve _been_ trying. I don’t want you to have to do all this… ” He gestures between us. “All the pretending, the playing along.”

“I don’t pretend with you.” I say. “I used to, before. When I thought you could only ever hate me, but not now. Not anymore.”

_Is that true though? How upfront about my feelings can I honestly say I’ve been if Simon is convinced I’m done with him? And is it too late to change his mind?_

“I don’t want to break up with you.” My voice is a whisper.

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do.” _Maybe I really should cast the truth spell. I don’t know how else to make him believe me._

He rolls his eyes. “Oh really? What about the way you look away from me when you come into the flat back home, then? Like the sight of me is painful.”

I can’t answer that. It _is_ painful. The grimace on his face every time I enter a room he’s in. The rare occasion when he smiles and it’s _never_ about me.

Luckily for me he forges ahead with his question unanswered. I suppose my silence seems like answer enough.

“And how about the way you never come near me anymore? You barely talk to me, and when you do, it’s from across the room.”

I can’t answer that either. The distance between us, that’s _his_ fault, but I don’t want to say that to him. He’s gradually pushed me away, and all I’ve done is let him. 

“And my name, Baz,” Simon’s voice breaks. “You’ve _never_ made the effort to call me by my actual name even though I’ve asked and asked.”

He’s right about that one. I _am_ guilty. I didn’t realize he cared so much, that I almost only ever call him Snow. Simon feels too personal for us, for the relationship we don’t quite have. 

But maybe this is my in, the key to making him listen to me, really listen.

I clear my throat. “While we’re being violently honest.” He looks down like he’s bracing for a blow. “Calling you by your given name feels… intimate. Every time I say ‘Simon’ It feels like I’m saying ‘I love you’ out loud.”

I chance a glance at Simon and his jaw has relaxed a little. He’s not smiling, but he’s not quite glaring anymore either.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Crikey, Baz” He’s silent for a long moment. I wish I knew what he was thinking. 

When he lifts his head to look at me his eyes look wide and, not hopeful exactly, but less pinched. Open, full of possibility. “Did you mean it then, just now… when you said you don’t want to break up with me?”

“I did, Simon. I don’t want to.”

He blinks. “I— I don’t know. But will you— will you keep doing that, either way? What you just did? Stop calling me Snow and call me Simon instead—all of the time?”

“You really want that, even with what I just told you?”

His voice is quiet but his eyes are intense. “Especially with what you just told me. Extra with that. Will you?”

_Maybe there is hope for us. I’ve just said I love him out loud and he didn’t bolt. Or shut down. In fact he’s asking me to tell him I love him all the time. (If he’s really understood what I’m saying—he_ has _always been shit at metaphor.)_

I swallow. “All right Simon. But I’ve been calling you Snow since we were eleven. You can’t expect me to change ten years of habit just like that, just because you suddenly want me to.” 

“It’s not sudden,” he says, voice clipped, verging on a growl. The crease between his eyebrows is back, the possibility of a smile retreating. “And I do expect that,” he adds. “People change their names all the time. Someone chooses a new name, or decides to go by a nickname, and the people in their lives make the effort to change their habits.” He pins me with a hard stare. “If they care.”

I can’t deny that he’s right. “Okay. I will. But if I do slip up and call you Snow, while I’m getting used to it, please believe that I’ve just made a mistake. That I’m not trying to tell you I love you any less. Can you do that?”

He nods.

“In fact,” I continue. “If I ever do stop loving you I promise I won’t hide it to save your feelings. I promise to sit you down for another painfully honest conversation and tell you to your face.”

“That sounds awful,” he says, almost smiling again.

“Yeah. It does.” My lips are turning up at the edge too. If feels good that we’re agreeing about something. Even this.

Besides, it’s an easy promise to make. Loving Simon is part of who I am, and it always will be. My love for Simon fills the place inside me where living people keep their soul. 

“So,” he says, suddenly business-like “now that you’ve agreed to do something I want, you have to tell me what you want from me.”

“This isn’t a bazaar, Simon. We’re not bartering.”

He’s shaking his head. “I need to do something for you. You’re already doing too much for me.”

I sigh. “All I want is to know how to help you be happier.”

There’s a long pause. A Simon thinking pause. Eventually he shrugs. “I don’t think I’m a happy person. I don’t think you can help with that.”

I honestly believe the best way to help him would be to force him back into therapy. But I can’t suggest that, can I? Returning to therapy is decision he has to make on his own. Still, it’s the only thing I can think of. 

“It’s not like I can drive you to your Skype appointments to make sure you’re keeping them,” I begin.

Simon catches what I’m hinting at and groans, but I plow on.

“But that’s what I’d like. I wish you would give therapy another try.”

He shakes his head. “No Baz. No one’s going to be able to fix me. This is just who I am. I wish you would believe what you see when you look at me.” He head is still moving slowly back and forth while he talks. "I’ve shown you who I am. I’ve shown you and shown you and shown you.” He’s shaking his head faster now, and it’s starting to go too fast, like a dog just in from the rain. “Why won’t you believe it? I don’t understand why you want to stick with me when you could just go.”

Then his head stills and he squeezes his eyes shut. He looks like he did after the run-in at Car Henge, lying in the back of Shepard’s pickup truck, bleeding from his wings—in pain. I feel the progress I thought we just made slipping away.

But I think about it. I think about what he’s shown me—on this trip, back in London, at Watford. It’s not a pretty picture, to be honest. But I didn’t fall in love with a pretty picture, with someone who was neat and tidy and safe. I fell in love with an absolute disaster. _I’ve_ always known that, and the stone in my gut is yelling at me that if I don’t find a way to make Simon see it too, this could be it for us. 

“First, I’m really afraid to say this because I don’t know how you’re going to react. But, brutally honest, yeah?”

“Okay.” He’s looking wary, which is fair. 

“Will you promise not to run? Even if you don’t like it?”

I reach my hand out towards him. If he’s set on rejecting me I might as well give him every opportunity. 

To my surprise, he reaches out and clasps my hand. “Yeah. Yes. Okay. I’m here.”

I curl my fingers around the edge of his hand. “Is this all right?”

He nods.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Simon. You know when you said when someone shows you who they are, you should believe them?”

He nods again.

“Well, what you’ve shown me repeatedly, since we were just kids at Watford, is that you don’t care much for your own life.” I look at his face, into his eyes, to see how he’s taking it. He blinks a few times but doesn’t pull away. So I push on. “At school you put your life on the line constantly. More than I even realized at the time.” The next part’s harder to say because it hits closer to home. “In London you weren’t eating properly, you didn’t even care enough about yourself to get a haircut.” 

He’s blinking harder now, looking down and clutching my hand. 

“And here in America, well you’ve put yourself in the way of danger again. Repeatedly. You almost died.” Suddenly the lump in my throat is back and I can barely talk. “And I’m not sure you really cared.”

There are tears falling down his face now too. “I did care Baz. I got up. You needed me and I got up and I kept you safe.”

“That’s the thing though, Simon. I don’t think caring about your life for my sake is enough. I think you need to care about it for your sake too.”

I think maybe, finally, I’ve gotten through to him. Just to be sure, I say the thing I most want him to know. To _Really_ know. The thing I’ve never been able to make him understand before. “Simon. I love you.” 

He starts crying harder. I can hear the sobs choking out of him and see his shoulders shaking. 

Sitting with my hand under his while both of us weep is not enough. Not being able to wrap my arms around him is destroying me. 

My voice shakes. “If you felt like hugging me, now would be a good time.” 

He drops my hand and slides his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side, hard, and tilting his head against mine. I can feel his tears falling into my hair. This feels scary, but I think it’s good; I don’t think either of us has held anything back. Now, I think, we’ll be able to move forward. And we’ll be doing it together. I slide my arm around his waist and pull him tight. I’m allowed to do that. I’ll always be here, ready to make the second move. 

  
  


  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> After I read Wayward Son there were so many things I wanted Simon and Baz to be able to say to each other that I wrote it all down and have turned it into a couple of different alternate endings. This is one of them and Face the Truth is the other.


End file.
